By Shirley Adelman

October, when breast cancer
testimonials almost outnumber
Pharma ads. Survivors thanking
hospitals and medical staff for
today when tomorrow seemed
as improbable as breast cancer
yesterday.  Now, twenty-three
remembering the struggle,
to struggle on:

An adjunct rushing from treatment
to college to college until my body
gave out.
Walking from the sofa
                            to the kitchen,
a destination
                         I struggled to reach.

A Department Head argued,
I should have known
I had breast cancer before
starting the semester.
In the future, when the future
seemed as illusive as an income,
he threatened to give me
a midnight schedule at the Navy Yard,
a distant satellite campus.

He came close to fulfilling
his threat by giving me
evening classes in a tough
neighborhood where, waiting
for public transportation meant
risking a mugging.

Cruelty leaves scars deeper
than surgery, more lethal
than invasive breast cancer,
and so I cry.

I wonder: What is the average
lifespan of an adjunct working
from paycheck to paycheck,
dependent upon department
heads who teach the humanities,
but lack heart. 

Previously published in “Blue Collar Review,” Fall 2016, pp.29-30